


Take It Back

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [16]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 11:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18619999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: He’s almost asleep when someone’s banging on the door, making him grumble and start to sit up. But when Patrice’s eyes open, it’s to a room he barely recognizes, a bed he wasn’t lying on two seconds ago, and clothes he doesn’t remember putting on. Next to this strange bed is his away game suitcase already exploded across the floor (most likely from looking for his sweatpants), a room service tray on the nightstand, and an empty glass of… something. Probably water.The door bangs again, harder this time. “Bergy! You in there? Krej said you’re in there!”But…Wait.That can’t be right.





	Take It Back

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [for something like a moment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134612) by [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex). 
  * Inspired by [Posthumous Forgiveness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139295) by [Aaron_The_8th_Demon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon). 



> I STOLE THIS IDEA FROM ALEX! I STOLE THIS IDEA FROM ALEX! I STOLE THIS IDEA FROM ALEX! I just want that fact to be very clear.
> 
> The two works this was inspired by are... not required reading before you read this one, but you should definitely do it anyway because Alex's work is excellent and must be seen. The other one was written by me and expounds on Bergy's guilt.

Patrice has never been great with illnesses or injuries, which is a secret to nobody. He has a bunch of papers full of instructions when he’s discharged from the hospital, but he only pays attention to them long enough to drop them on his kitchen counter as he comes into his apartment. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s mostly better and can take care of himself.

Patrice makes no effort to take care of himself, though. He kicks off his shoes, drops onto the couch in a sad heap, and reaches for his laptop. Pictures… no, not these pictures, these are recent… there’s that really awful one, a still from a news camera of himself crying while his best friend’s number is retired, and looking at it drags back the memory enough to make him well up before he moves on. There - older pictures. Patrice looks for a specific one, and it takes him forever to locate it. Brad posing in his stall, barefoot on his back on the bench in just his compression clothes that he wore under his pads and grinning to the camera. He looks so goofy but also kind of adorable in this photo.

For a long time, Patrice just stares at it. It’s been almost a year, now, and sometimes he has trouble remembering Brad’s voice; whenever that happens he searches for clips on YouTube of his friend, and that usually helps, but it’s not the same. He wonders what Brad would have to say about that. Patrice also wonders, were Brad able to answer, if he’d regret what he did. He thinks Brad would probably say something like _yes, I’m sorry I did it, Bergy, it was stupid of me and I’d go back and change it if I could…_

Patrice lets the ache of loss roll through him for the thousandth time as he strokes a fingertip across the screen of his computer. He misses Brad so much today, misses the laughter and the ridiculous behavior and the bright expressions and the moments of sweetness and _everything_ that he ever associated with his best friend, even the things that at the time seemed bad or annoying. He scrolls through a few more pictures until his eyes are too blurred with tears to make them out.

Patrice leans back into the corner of the couch and folds his laptop shut, closing his eyes and wiping moisture from under them. He’s not sure how much of his weakness is from the lingering sickness and how much is the guilt, but it’s dragging him down at the neck either way and he needs a nap. The couch is fine for naps, with his laptop (and by extension the last part of Brad he has left) close by.

He’s almost asleep when someone’s banging on the door, making him grumble and start to sit up. But when Patrice’s eyes open, it’s to a room he barely recognizes, a bed he wasn’t lying on two seconds ago, and clothes he doesn’t remember putting on. Next to this strange bed is his away game suitcase already exploded across the floor (most likely from looking for his sweatpants), a room service tray on the nightstand, and an empty glass of… something. Probably water.

The door bangs again, harder this time. “Bergy! You in there? Krej said you’re in there!”

But…

Wait.

That can’t be right.

Convinced he actually is sleeping, Patrice slowly gets up and goes over in a daze. He’s pulled the door open less than an inch when it’s flung the rest of the way, and then a hand is grabbing his wrist and yanking. This hand can’t really be there, though, because the person it’s attached to has been dead for almost a year.

“You keep not coming with me every time we’re here, this time you are! It’s not even raining or anything and… actually it’s a little cold, you should go get your jacket. And your shoes. And your keycard so you can get back in,” Brad babbles, now letting go and shoving him into the room before the door can close and lock him out.

“Um-” Patrice tries to say, but he’s getting pushed along by his friend and there’s no time. Why is Brad so excited? Why is Brad _here?_ For that matter, where the hell even are they to begin with? What’s going on?

He wants to ask all of this, but Brad’s being insane. “Come on, keycard! Shoes! I know you’re tired and shit, but you can give me like five minutes for this, right?”

Patrice doesn’t even know what to say, now, but at least his body is less stupid than his brain because it’s obeying and throwing on his jacket. “What’s going on?” he finally manages to choke out as he’s stuffing his feet into his sneakers and his key into his pocket.

“They still haven’t learned to lock that fucking door on the roof, but it’s got a great view,” Brad answers, now grabbing his arm a second time and pulling him along. “Seriously, you should see it, all the stars are out and shit, it’s nice.”

Wait.

Roof.

Unlocked door.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ it’s all snapping into place and Patrice is in equal parts terrified and horrified that this is what he’s dreaming about. Why does it have to be _this?_ Of all the dreams he could have about Brad, why _this moment?_ Wasn’t once enough?!

They’re climbing the stairs and Patrice’s legs don’t want to work. He stumbles twice before Brad actually pauses in dragging him: “Damn, Bergy, I knew you’re tired, but I didn’t know it’s bad enough you forgot how to walk.”

“Brad please don’t do this,” Patrice begs, tripping on another step trying to get close to his friend. “It’s okay, you don’t… don’t have to…”

The rest of the words won’t leave his throat and he’s working hard to not burst into tears, because he’s dreaming and crying won’t help. Patrice doesn’t even know why he bothered trying to talk, because nothing will change. He knows how this ends. There’s no stopping it. Except Brad is giving him a puzzled look in response.

“Uh… okay, if you’re really that exhausted, I guess it can wait ’til next time. But then the weather might be shit or maybe they’ll fix the door by then.”

Patrice realizes there’s no point in dragging things out, so he forces his feet to cooperate no matter how much it feels like he’s going to throw up. He’s shaking and sweating and maybe he’s about to just drop dead on the spot, which wouldn’t be the worst thing because then he’ll wake up and not have to go all the way to the end of this horror.

He just wants it to be over when they cross the last step onto the roof. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need to relive the biggest fucking mistake he’s ever made, doesn’t need to cause his friend’s end again. Patrice feels like he’s the one who’s about to jump to his death instead of Brad.

“See? It’s so nice from up here.” Brad’s quiet, looking out at the lights and colors, just like before. Fuck, shit, fuck, now he’s shuffling around, nervous and excited and _fuck it’s happening again just like before._ “Uh… Pat, I wanted to ask you about something…”

Patrice wants to die. Maybe if he dies instead, Brad won’t have to.

“I was kinda thinking about this for awhile, and. Like. You know what, you should be proud of me, I actually planned something for once.”

 _Brad, please, no…_ He wants, so much, to turn this thought into spoken words, but his jaws are screwed shut with guilt and fear.

“But. Um. That’s not even the point.” The frustration and slight stuttering is the same as it was the first time. Brad’s rare, nervous quiet is the same as it was the first time. It’s all the same. Patrice can’t stop it. He has to see it again, and there’s nothing he can do. “I wanted to… Pat, I don’t even know how to talk about this…”

Patrice remembers making a light joke the first time, about how weird it was Brad couldn’t just say what was on his mind, but now he’s choking on his own voice and sweating from fear. He just stands there like his shoes are melted into the roof, waiting for this awful moment to play out.

And there it goes: Brad is slowly turning around to look at him, eyes big and excited and scared and hopeful. Patrice hates that look. It signals the beginning of the end, the last four minutes of his best friend’s life are taking place. Now, movements. Brad shuffles closer, completely silent except the slight scrape of his feet. Finally… the hand. His palm is warm on Patrice’s skin, strong fingers and a gentle touch and _oh god, I hate this, why do I have to see this again?_

Patrice doesn’t know what to do, because he knows how this will turn out but he just can’t do what he did last time, so where does that leave him? He’s sweating and nauseous and none of his limbs will move… but then, there’s thumbs on his cheekbones, wiping tears he didn’t know were falling from under eyes he doesn’t remember closing.

“Pat, why are you crying?”

Brad never said that before. Patrice still doesn’t know what to do, this isn’t how it happened last time, but this is a dream and even if it doesn’t make sense and changes in the dream he’s going to wake up on his couch and nothing in the real world will be different. Somehow, that makes it worse, which shouldn’t even be possible at this point, and Patrice grabs onto Brad’s shoulders as his knees disappear out from under him.

Crumpled on the ground, sobbing, shaking, it’s fucking terrible how grateful he is for the arms around his shoulders, the murmurs about how he’s sweating in this cold and must have a fever. A strong grip and a feeling of warmth and a voice belonging to someone long gone, all drawing him into a bubble of comfort. Patrice still wishes he was dead, but for a different reason. Before, he wanted this to just be over, but now the idea of it ending is unbearable. He can’t see through the haze of tears as Brad slowly leads him down from the roof, he barely hears the mumbled explanations of _Pat’s sick, can you tell Krej I’m switching rooms with him?_

Patrice does eventually throw up - he’s unsure if it’s fear or how disgusted he is with himself right now - but Brad gets him to the bathroom first, if not actually to the toilet. At least it’ll be easy to clean off a tile floor instead of a carpet. Maybe he really is sick, because he’s still trembling and crying as he halfheartedly brushes his teeth before dragging himself onto his bed and curling into a ball with his forehead on his knees.

Hands. His shoes are pulled from his feet, his arms are unfolded and he’s rolled to the other side long enough for his jacket to be slid free of his shoulders. Then Brad’s wrapped around him in place of the jacket, hugging him and telling him he should sleep.

“I’m already asleep,” Patrice whimpers, finally finding words again. He rubs his face across the knees of his sweatpants to wipe his eyes. “I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Brad promises, obviously thinking he’s telling the truth. “Just go to sleep, Bergy. They’ll make you sit out the game tomorrow, probably, but it’s not the end of the world.”

He’s so gentle and tender and loving that Patrice’s heart breaks all over again. It leaves him unable to react any other way besides twisting onto his other side, burying his face in Brad’s chest and begging through his sobs for Brad to please, please not leave him again. “I was so stupid and it was all my fault, and-and-and you’re gone, you’re just gone, I can’t take it back and it hurts so bad, I cou-could’ve stopped it but I was too stupid…”

Despite Patrice’s irrational-sounding rambles, Brad’s still calm and soothing, letting him cling and brushing down the hair on the back of his head. He soaks in the feeling, knowing that when he wakes up he won’t have it anymore.

Then Patrice is opening his eyes, and something’s not right, because it feels like time has passed but he’s still in that hotel bed. Only now he’s on his back under the blankets, and when he looks over the clock on the side table says it’s approaching 10:30am. Across the room, Brad’s sitting on the other bed, reading something on his iPad - at least until his phone buzzes and he starts texting instead. Then he glances over and notices.

“Hey, you’re up… damn, Bergy, you’re fucking pale. When are you gonna learn to stay home when you’re not up for a game? This is going to be the punctured lung thing all over again, except you’re sick instead so you’ll just pass out on the ice and fucking die or something,” Brad scolds, getting up and retrieving a glass of water.

It’s pressed into Patrice’s trembling hands and he drinks a few sips before setting it aside. His mouth is dry but he feels like he’ll start throwing up again if he actually swallows more than that… maybe he _is_ sick… no, he’s not, this is a bad dream that for some reason he hasn’t woken up from yet. A bad dream that aside from the fact Brad’s alive makes way more sense than any dream has before now.

“Brad…” Patrice croaks out. “You’re here…”

His friend now has a concerned frown. “Maybe you should get sent home, Bergy. You’re really sick, moving around for a road trip’s just going to make it worse.”

Patrice frantically reaches over and grabs for whichever part of Brad he can reach - it ends up being a hand. He can’t go, he can’t leave Brad here, it’s unthinkable and he needs to be where Brad is for as long as possible until he wakes up and goes back to a duller, emptier world.

Brad looks kind of shocked, but squeezes back with his fingers for a second before pulling free. “Okay, but you need to finish that water.”

“I will,” Patrice nods. “Just don’t go.”

“Uh, I kinda have to later, Bergy.”

“No,” Patrice begs.

“There’s a game today,” Brad tells him. “Remember? The Preds?”

“Oh.” Patrice pretends like that makes sense, because it actually makes too much sense and therefore makes _no_ sense. Dreams aren’t supposed to make sense, right? “Yeah. The game.”

“Okay you’re so fucking out of it right now it’s looking like you should skip going home and just get taken right to a hospital.”

“I hate going to the hospital,” Patrice groans, closing his eyes and pinching between them. He really, really does, mostly because he’s spent a lot of time in hospitals and it’s never fun.

“Drink your water,” Brad insists, poking him in the arm and shoving the glass at him.

He does his best, but can only get half of it down. He lays back on the bed and watches Brad text someone - he’s trying to imprint all the motions and expressions deeper into his brain, so that he’ll never forget even once he wakes up from this.

“Brad, please don’t do anything stupid,” Patrice whispers, not sure if he actually means to say it out loud or not. Brad’s going to do what he’s going to do no matter what anyone says, so it’s pointless anyway.

“Stupid’s my middle name,” Brad grins.

“Your middle name is Kevin. I’m not kidding, don’t do anything stupid today,” Patrice insists.

“Hm, maybe you don’t need to go to the hospital after all,” his friend snorts. “You’re getting on my case for shit, that’s a good sign, right?” Slowly, though, Brad starts looking concerned and serious again. “Bergy, are you sure you don’t want to at least go home? You look like hell and last night you collapsed when I was trying to talk to you, then you puked all over the bathroom - and my shirt - and then you kept waking up and crying all last night. You could be contagious or something, so…”

It’s only now Patrice notices how exhausted Brad is: he looks like a raccoon from such dark circles around his dull, drooping eyes. It’s too detailed, and Patrice wonders how much longer he can convince himself this is a dream. Because by now, it clearly isn’t… shit, maybe he lost consciousness on his couch and now he’s comatose again because he left the hospital too early. That’s why this is different from a normal dream and lasting so damn long. It also kind of explains him throwing up, maybe he really did stumble off to his bathroom to be sick and just kept hallucinating this insane scenario all the while.

“I’m not contagious,” Patrice decides, dragging himself back to the “present.” He eyes Brad. “You should have a nap if you’re going to still play, then. I’ll be quiet.”

Brad nods after a second, then comes over to pull him so he’s sitting upright and gives him a hug. Brad’s hugs are the best, bar none. “I don’t know what you were freaking out about before, but it’s going to be okay.”

“I can’t talk about this right now,” Patrice replies, his throat trying to close again. He hugs back just as tightly and closes his eyes for a second - Brad smells like deodorant and expensive aftershave and fabric softener. “Later.”

“Okay.” Brad nods against his neck.

The room light is turned off and the curtains are closed so that Brad can sleep for a couple of hours before lunch, and Patrice lays down as well because he still feels almost as bad as he did “last night” during his breakdown on the roof. He doesn’t nap, though, because he’s too busy thinking. So in real life, his best guess is he’s unconscious at home and soon his mother will check on him and he’ll be brought back to the hospital. Or something. He’ll wake up at some point looking at a white fiberboard ceiling with machines bleeping around him, and disinfectant stink and IV tubes and his family and no Brad. His stomach clenches and he takes a sip of water.

Patrice’s phone buzzes on the side table - when he picks it up, it’s Z, texting to ask him if he’ll feel better soon and be able to play tonight. He texts back saying no, he’ll sit this one out, but maybe he’ll be better tomorrow so he’s not going home. He puts the phone aside and lays down again. Brad seems to already be asleep, so he stays still and listens to the quiet. And… Brad’s _here._ He’s not over that fact. Patrice kind of hopes he stays comatose forever, because this hallucination apparently also has hockey just like real life but the person who matters most to him is still here.

Patrice rolls onto his side and hugs one of the pillows against his chest. He wonders how long it’ll be like this, how long he’ll get to keep Brad until he wakes up in the hospital again. He’s dreamed about things going differently before, but those were brief and smeary and he doesn’t remember them. This is so vivid and so real, he hopes Brad will try to kiss him just so he knows how it feels. Patrice loves Brad so much but he was such an idiot that he wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, and what happened on the roof in real life is completely his fault.

 _How long will I have him for?_ Patrice wonders silently. In a coma hallucination, though, he doesn’t really have to worry about consequences. It’s a strange idea. Patrice always thinks everything through carefully, considering implications and repercussions as thoroughly as possible. He needs to unlearn that for the time being and just let himself be with Brad given the chance. He has to know for sure what it’s like - if he’d just been honest back then, if he’d made the right choice instead of the choice he thought was safe, if he hadn’t been stupid and caused Brad to die.

Patrice quietly gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom sink. He runs the faucet over his hands so that he can wipe his face with cold water, and it’s nice. Now he’s wondering how long he can convince himself he’s in some altered state of mind. It feels too real, it makes too much sense. But he can’t think of any other explanation. There’s nothing he can come up with that matches this scenario.

A hand on his shoulder - it’s Brad, wearing an expression of panic. Patrice immediately cringes with alarm.

“Pat, are you dying?” Brad demands, in the tone of voice he always uses when he’s just reacting to something without thinking about it first.

“What?” Patrice asks in reply. It’s not what he was expecting.

“If you’re dying, you gotta tell me _right now_ so I can take you to a hospital and get it fixed,” his friend insists.

“No, I’m not dying. You’re supposed to be taking a nap,” Patrice reminds him.

“I can’t fall asleep,” Brad protests, the same way a child does. “I’m worried about you being sick.”

“It’s been six minutes since you laid down,” he points out. “I promise I’m not dying.”

Brad obviously isn’t convinced. “Then why were you crying so much?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not dying and you need to sleep.”

What the hell is he doing? He was just thinking about ignoring consequences but every time he opens his mouth something responsible still comes out. Patrice turns so he’s not looking at Brad through the mirror and reaches for his friend’s hands. “Brad. I’m not dying. I don’t need to go to the hospital. You have a game in a few hours and need to sleep. Nothing’s happening and you don’t need to keep freaking out. Okay?”

Brad nods. For a second, it seems like he’s going to say something or go for a kiss, but he doesn’t. Instead he slowly pulls his hands away and goes back to bed. Patrice breathes out silently and looks back at the mirror again. His hair is a mess, his eyes are red, his skin is white like printer paper; no wonder Brad thinks he’s about to croak.

Patrice sighs quietly to himself and finger-combs his hair a little before also going back to bed. He’s already confirmed to Z that he’s not playing, but he’s got nothing better to do besides lay around listening to Brad breathing softly on the other side of the room. It’s such a reassuring sound that he eventually dozes off to it, and when he comes back to the world he hears Brad talking quietly.

“You sure? I’m showing some of the rookies where to get the best food here.” Ah, that’s Torey, talking about lunch.

“Nah, it’s okay. I gotta make sure Bergy eats something, you guys have fun,” Brad answers. The door is closed with a soft click and then he gently shakes Patrice by the shoulder. “Hey, it’s twelve thirty, you should try to have some lunch.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Patrice argues, because the fact that _Brad is here_ still twists his insides into a ball. And then he realizes this is only reinforcing the idea that he’s sick and possibly going to kick the bucket to Brad, who’s frowning with worry. Patrice dredges up his best exasperated sigh. “I’m not dying, Bradley. I’m just not hungry.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Brad informs him. “You’re going to eat something.”

Patrice rolls his eyes, but really he doesn’t know how he should be reacting to this because he’s just so conflicted. Brad’s being stubborn and ridiculous and kind of irrational, which are all things he missed and it feels so damn _real._ He wants it to be real, even though that’s impossible, and he doesn’t know if he should laugh in relief at getting back something so important to his life or start crying like last night because he’s scared of when he’ll lose it again.

At least Brad’s not watching him as he’s tearing himself apart on the inside. Instead, he’s throwing on his shoes and coat to go out and probably get canned soup or something equally horrible. Patrice manages to pull a mildly-irritated expression when Brad’s looking again, because that won’t worry his friend more.

There’s only about twelve minutes between Brad leaving and coming back, with a salad for himself and a mug of chicken broth for Patrice. “There’s no noodles or anything in there, it’s just bouillon. That way you still get salt and whatever.”

Patrice grudgingly accepts it and promptly burns his tongue trying to drink it. “Ugh… that wasn’t smart,” he grumbles. He chooses his next words much more carefully than he approached the soup broth. “Brad… we should talk about what happened on the roof last night.”

“Fuck, I knew it, you really _are_ dying and you’ve just been lying about it since this morning!”

“No! For the last time, I’m not dying!” Patrice insists.

“Then why do we need to talk about it? You’re sick, Pat, whatever. It’s not your fault that you threw up on me.”

“Can I finish?” Patrice asks. He waits for Brad to nod. “Okay. I know what you were going for last night, and I just…” _Panicked. Lost it. Freaked the fuck out._ Nothing sounds right and he can’t finish the thought.

Now, Brad’s expression flash-floods with terror. “Yeah, uh, about that,” he croaks. “Um. You know, trying to like, do something romantic or whatever and then the other guy almost drops dead on you is a pretty big sign from the universe that it’s not happening, so. But that’s also not your fault. It’s fine. Really.”

It’s obviously not fine - rather, it’s immediately clear that Brad keeps asking if Patrice is dying because he at least partially wishes that _he_ was the one dying instead. It’s painful to look at, the reminder that Brad was just trying to do something memorable because under the chirping and fighting he’s actually a really sweet guy. Patrice already knew all that, but watching it now is reminiscent of his collapsed lung: his chest aches and he can’t breathe.

“Brad I didn’t stop you on purpose,” Patrice forces himself to say. _At least I didn’t this time._ “I was panicking because… I was just panicking. It’s not your fault. I… I wanted…” _Keep it together, Bergeron. He doesn’t know that he’s dead and this isn’t real. Telling him won’t help._ “I want to be with you, Brad. I was just scared.” _I’m apologizing for making you die and you don’t even know it._ “I’m sorry I panicked. I didn’t mean to shut you down.”

He stops talking, mostly because if he keeps going he’ll start crying again. Patrice wonders if it’s because he didn’t actually reject Brad that things are different here, or if it’s only because Brad got distracted by him being “sick.”

“Why did you get scared?” Brad quietly asks, clearly afraid of the answer.

“Consequences,” Patrice replies vaguely; trying to talk is like chewing barbed wire. “Just… the league, and the team… it’s so complicated… something could happen, and…” Why can’t he be coherent? “It’s not your fault, Brad, I’m just an idiot,” Patrice finally whimpers. _It’s not your fault that you’re dead._

He hangs his head, taking a more cautious gulp of the chicken broth to disguise the fact that he’s also swallowing guilt. There’s a cold sickness settling behind his sternum, spreading across his ribs as if Brad was right and he actually is dying.

Hands. Brad gently pulls away the cup of broth and sets it aside, then rests his palms on Patrice’s forearms. He has that look again, the same look as last night, the one that hurts Patrice right in his soul. Brad’s so quiet when he asks: “Please?”

 _Please give me a chance, please don’t reject me, please be with me._ It’s all those things and more in just one whispered word. Having seen what happened when he did, Patrice doesn’t dare say no a second time. He just nods slightly, and stays sitting on the edge of the hotel bed as Brad slowly leans in to kiss him. It’s nervous and kind of shy, two things most people would never associate with Brad, but it’s also tender and heartfelt, which are both properties Patrice assigned to him years ago. Patrice is in such a state of disbelief that for a split second he forgets to kiss back.

It doesn’t seem right that Patrice is always the one getting called perfect, because if there’s a perfect kisser, it’s definitely Brad - his mouth is exactly soft enough and the pressure is right on target. Even with this being light and closed-mouthed, Patrice manages to put all his love and longing and guilt and sadness into the return action, because Brad needs to know how he feels.

Parting afterwards isn’t parting, because their foreheads rest together and they’re sharing breaths. Patrice slides his arms out of Brad’s grasp just enough that their fingers can curl together, and even with his eyes closed he can feel Brad’s smile beginning to appear. When he actually looks, it’s different from when Brad grins for a camera or even for the team - this is a much nicer, more precious expression, like something sparkling in an otherwise dull field of stones. It draws a slow smile from Patrice as well, because this is too nice not to so fuck it possibly not being an actual thing that’s happening anywhere outside of his brain.

“It would’ve been more romantic under the stars like I planned,” Brad murmurs.

Patrice can’t help it - he starts giggling. “I’ll still take it,” he manages to answer. “It’s okay, Brad, you’re still amazing without any stars. You’re a lot brighter than them anyway.”

Now Brad preens and looks extremely pleased with himself. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Patrice nods. He didn’t have the chance to say these things before, so he should take what he can get now. “I don’t think anyone ever says how great you really are except you, and you’re usually joking when you say it. But forget just one room, you’re bright enough to light a whole ice arena. You always talk about me to the press, but I wouldn’t even be half as good if I didn’t have you out there.”

“I… wow, Pat…” Brad seems to have lost all his words for a second. “But what about earlier, you were talking about consequences…”

“They’re not as important to me as you,” Patrice whispers. He has to force away the sadness again. “I wish I learned that sooner.”

Brad looks both startled and flattered by this confession, and then they’re kissing again without any more words. Patrice wishes he could just stay like this forever, perched on the edge of a hotel bed and kissing Brad. They fit together so well, and he hates how stupid he was a year ago. Like earlier, Patrice wonders how long he gets to keep Brad before this - whatever this is - finally ends.

Eventually, Brad pulls back, obviously not wanting to. “I need to get some more sleep before we leave to go to the arena,” he mumbles.

Patrice nods. “It’s probably a good idea.”

He thinks for a second, then flips open the rumpled blankets and shuffles to the other side of the bed. Brad’s eyebrows raise much higher than it looks like they should, but he doesn’t question anything and accepts the offer. It ends up with Patrice being the big spoon, and once they’re settled he kisses the back of Brad’s head and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, it takes an absurd amount of effort. He’s kind of cold and he feels like shit, and there’s his mom and his sister, holding both his hands. His mom is kind and Mia is annoying, and… oh, god, he’s in the hospital, just like he’s been dreading. He’s back in the real world, where he nearly got killed by a glorified cold and it’s been almost a year since he lost Brad.

“He’s not here…” Patrice whispers. Even that grates on his throat, which is sore from coughing.

Mia rolls her eyes. “What, aren’t we enough for you? You should be happy to see us, you jerk.”

“But…” He can’t even get a second word out. _But I had Brad again, just a couple minutes ago. But I finally know what it’s like to kiss him and let him fall asleep in my arms. But I love him so much and now he’s gone again._

His mom scolds his sister but Patrice isn’t listening; he wants to go back to sleep and dream about Brad. He closes his eyes and sinks heavily into the pillow, trying to soothe himself by thinking that at least now he knows what could’ve been. The curtain around the bed rustles a little, but it’s probably just some doctor to check the machines and he ignores it. Denying the existence of the world around him only works until his mom and his sister both let go of his hands, and then he’s being dragged upright so the life can get crushed out of him.

Patrice looks, but his face is pressed to a shoulder so there’s nothing to see except a cotton t-shirt. Whoever’s hugging him like this is really strong, probably as strong as he is. He hugs back cautiously and tries to breathe in… deodorant and expensive aftershave and fabric softener. Not for the first time in recent hours, all Patrice can think at first is _this can’t be right._

Because…

Because this is Brad.

Brad is hugging him.

Brad is _here._

In the real world.

“Brad,” he croaks, then coughs for a second. “Brad, you’re here…”

“Yeah,” Brad whimpers. “Pat, I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean it…”

“Didn’t mean what?”

“I… I didn’t…”

Brad stops talking and is completely silent, but judging by the shaking and stuttering breaths Patrice is pretty sure he’s crying. Patrice rubs Brad’s back with one palm and closes his eyes, but not before seeing his mom and Mia share a look and get up to leave for a few minutes. He waits for the door to click shut before trying to talk again, throat pain be damned.

“Brad, I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I don’t know what happened…” Brad still hasn’t let go of him. “I… fuck, I was just thinking that I wish I stopped to think about it first and it was so fucking awful and-and then I just woke up in the chair here, I don’t even know what happened… fuck, Pat, I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was just - I’m just so fucking stupid sometimes…”

Brad dissolves into sobs and Patrice just holds onto him for awhile, even exhausted and achy from whatever virus he has. He’s got no idea what Brad’s going on about, but he also doesn’t really care, because Brad’s _here_ and that’s all that interests him right now.

“It’s okay,” he offers, voice scratchy.

That actually makes things worse. “Don’t say it’s okay!” Brad shouts. “It’s not okay… Pat, it’s not… it’s not okay.” A pause - he feels Brad swallow. “You know how fucking scary it is? Like… you have fifteen seconds to think about it, about how much you wish you stopped to think about it first and how fucking sorry you are and how much you wish you can take it back… and-and then, I… then I fucking hit the ground, and I woke up in a chair here, and you… I don’t even know how this fucking happened. It’s not fucking okay, Pat… it’s so fucking scary to die.”

Oh.

That’s what this is.

Oh, fuck.

“Brad, don’t, okay?” Patrice whimpers. “It was my fault, I should’ve done something different… I was scared, and it made me stupid, and I wanted to go back and fix it so much.”

They stay like that for a long time, clinging to each other and crying until they’re finally wrung out. Brad gently lets go of Patrice so he can lay down again, then sits in the chair by the bed.

“I’m sorry I did it,” he whispers again. “I really didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t,” Patrice nods. Cautiously, he reaches out and takes one of Brad’s hands in his. “I didn’t, either… I’m just so used to doing what’s right or responsible and it stopped me from doing what I wanted. I was scared of the consequences, and… I shouldn’t have just left you up there like that. I should’ve at least talked to you about it and told you what I was thinking. Please don’t hate yourself, Brad. This was my fault.”

Brad rubs his thumb along the back of Patrice’s hand. “Z and Pasta both texted me to ask how you’re doing. When I unlocked my phone the wallpaper is a picture of us.”

Realization slowly dawns on Patrice. “It’s been a year…”

“Huh?”

“It’s been almost a year since… since you… they hung your number in the rafters a few weeks after. Something’s different here.”

They go online on Brad’s phone and type “bruins number 63 retired” into the search, but nothing comes up. They try searching Brad’s name instead and the top suggestion is **brad marchand playoffs suspension** , so out of curiosity they pick that. The first thing that comes up:  **Marchand Suspended 3 Games After Breaking Marner’s Nose** , dated from the 2019 playoff round against the Leafs. A more thorough search of Brad’s name yields all kinds of interesting things, and almost by accident they stumble across a YouTube video from late 2018 of the two of them. It’s a clip from Behind The B, and someone behind the camera asks how they got together.

 _“He puked on me in a hotel room,”_ the Brad in the screen laughs.

Screen-Patrice rolls his eyes. _“There was a little more to it than that, Bradley.”_

 _“What? When someone spews chunks on your favorite shirt and you don’t give a_ **_< bleep>_** _, that’s how you know they’re The One.”_

_“You’re a terrible person.”_

_“Yeah, I know, but you love me anyway,”_ Brad grins, kissing the side of Patrice’s face.

 _“Unfortunately, it’s true,”_ Patrice agrees, obviously trying not to smile.

The video stops a second later, leaving them to stare at each other awkwardly. Patrice isn’t sure if he heard that right - puking on Brad in a hotel room? That actually happened? Nothing makes sense anymore. Patrice wonders how long he can keep going before the inability to believe in reality drives him insane. He’ll dwell on that later when he has time. Instead, for right now, he decides to explain the nonsensical chain of events to Brad, making sure to emphasise how good it felt at the time to be allowed an alternative to the biggest mistake of his life. He ends with, “…and then I woke up here again, and I thought it was a dream. But then you came over and hugged me. I couldn’t believe you were here. I still kind of can’t.”

Patrice holds out a hand, not touching but instead offering. _We both wanted this so much… now we have the chance. Please, be with me now._ He holds his breath. Brad doesn’t even hesitate, he shakes his head at Patrice’s hand and goes for a kiss instead. All things considered, including both of them tasting like salt, it’s a much nicer answer. It’s like the kiss in the hotel room, but better, because current circumstances and confusion aside this is also them forgiving each other for what happened on the roof. Someday, Patrice knows, they’ll be able to forgive themselves, too.

His mom and sister come back into the room a couple minutes later, carrying food. There’s nothing for Patrice since he’s on an IV, but they got Brad an Italian sub from Subway that he promptly inhales. They hold hands and nothing explodes; Patrice dozes off for a few minutes and when he wakes up again Brad is still there chirping back and forth with Mia. It’s kind of the same as in the hotel, because even though he’s sick Patrice probably wouldn’t mind just staying like this - laying back with Brad’s hand in his, knowing how loved he is and feeling like everything’s okay in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, Brad didn't break Marner's nose in real life. I wrote this during the first round and I just wanted him to punch a Leaf in the face.


End file.
